I didn’t come tonight,
Caught up in thoughts of you.
Your lips pressed softly against someone else’s neck,
Your arms tight around their waist.

I didn’t come tonight,
As hard as I tried,
I couldn’t muster up the energy or enthusiasm.  

I didn’t come tonight,
Your mouth, praising someone else’s name, worshipping.

I didn’t come tonight
And you didn’t make me.

I wrote 22 poems last night,
In honor of you.
I’m not saying they’re all worth reading.

But every year that has passed,
Without you here,
Is a year I feel like retreating.

I want to give up the fight,
Get back to you sooner,
Finally see your smile.

Heaven’s too far,
But if that’s where you rest,
I’d walk through hell, every mile.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would wrestle it from your arms.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would store it in a bottle and throw it out to sea with a note that says, “please don’t open me.”

If grief were a tangible thing, I would place a bookmark before your least favorite chapter, and let us come back to it another day.

If grief were a tangible thing, or a wound, easily seen to the human eye, I would be able to stitch you back together with something other than the words, “I’m so sorry.”

If grief were a tangible thing, I would wipe it from your eyes, like the tears that fall.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would be the first to hold your heart while we tie it up neatly with bandages.

If grief were a tangible thing, if grief were a tangible thing. If.

you fill the space where i should be with thoughts of yourself.

I trust myself, but not you.

I understand life comes in waves
And I'm beginning to think
I need to hold onto the things that save
And let go of those that make me sink

it's not right.
for you or for me.
but regardless,
here we are.

and there we go.

it's not right.
but it's right here.
so here we are.
and we'll never go back.

Depression makes me feel so undesirable.

Like a thief in the daylight,
I saw you coming,
And you still stole everything I had.

coercion is not only the absence of “no.”

it is also the “yes” that is given when the option of “no” is stripped away.

please don’t forget that your “yes” was not a “moment of weakness” or a “sin you have to repent for”

you said “yes” because “no” wasn’t an option. and that’s not really saying “yes” at all.

They tell me stick close,
To the devil I know.
It has to be better,
Than facing unknowns

But the devil I know
Doesn’t kiss like you do,
Doesn’t hold my heart carefully,
And promise he’s true.

The devil I know,
With his familiar face,
Doesn’t captivate me
In all of your ways.

Just one more hit,
One more night spent alone,
And then I’ll go home,
To the devil I know.

There’s a lot of questions I want to ask.
Did you love her as much as you claim to love me?
Did you ever really love me at all?
Is convenience and accessibility a foundation that prevents doubts, temptations, and storms of life from dragging you back to a sea of discontentment?

No.
I don’t believe they are.

But you’ve made the choice.
You’ve chosen convenient and accessible and you’ve committed to memory the tender moments when love felt genuine.
But soon the winds will shift. Maybe I’ll be the one to float away from my own poorly constructed foundation.
And you’ll be left asking,
Did you really love me? Or was I just convenient?

it's kind of one of those nights.
you know.
the one that makes you want to crash your car on the highway.

it's one of those nights.
where your phone is full of people.
but nobody is home.

and the only people you really want to talk to,
are the ones who decided you're no longer worth their time.
so out with a bang you go, my dear.

I had a dream just the other day, that you were happy.
Happy like you were in July. Happy like you were when we were with each other.
And in the blink of an eye the world changed and you weren't happy anymore.
You pulled away. You said hurtful things and I couldn't believe you had changed so much.
To me it seemed like an instant change, and then I began to wonder how long those dark feelings had been working within you.
How long had you been fighting to stay happy and stay alive?
And what made you let them win. I don't know when the change came. I don't even know why.
But I know that it did. And I hope you find all that you want out of your life.
I dreamt about your happiness. If that doesn't make you believe I love you then I don't know what will

I wish there was more I could say to make you understand
The demons are inside of us, walking hand in hand

And when the nights come, when I cry myself to sleep
I tell myself it's your demons, that make you say those things

But the truth that I'm to afraid to find,
The truth that hides within your mind

Is it from your demons you wish to be free
Or are you tired of something else, something more like me?

Our demons don't play well together, at least not anymore
So perhaps we should say goodbye and open up new doors

I'm not saying that you fixed everything.
But it all hurt a lot less when you were around.

You took me today, to the place where you broke your arm. You told me how you were young, your parents on the other side of the park, and how much pain you were in. And you told me you didn't cry. And I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to kiss you and tell you that I know you've endured pain, much beyond a broken bone, but refused to let yourself show how much it hurt you. I wanted to kiss you and tell you that I know how strong you are, even when it's all broken. I wanted to kiss you, I wanted you to be mine, so that you never had to spare tears over broken bones or broken hearts again.

I miss you most at 4 am.
Waking up from another dream of you.
A dream where you wanted me.
A dream where we were together.
Even after all these years,
My heart remembers you.
And ****. It misses you at 4 am.

I envy you.
The poet that’s read.
The lover that’s sated.
The giver, fulfilled.

I envy you.
The season that changes.
The ocean, undeterred.
The leaves, allowed to rest.

I envy you.
For you are all the things,
That I thought I’d be.

Nights spent laying in a twin sized bed.
Stories are swirling, filling your head.

My arms around you, as our breathing slows,
Together we drift to the land of unknowns.

Nights spent laying - freckle to freckle.
Your eyes are bright blue, filled with dreams and a speckle.

I whisper I love you as we lay there together,
And I know that my life couldn’t possibly be better.

I’ll hold you for now - while you grow up too fast.
I’ll soak up the moments until they are past.

Thank you twin bed for the space to hold on,
To the boy that I love while we sleep until dawn.

I found a bunch of my old writing today.

None of it seemed to move me the way you used to.

Anyone who says
They don’t count the syllables
On their fingers, lies.

tell me the truth.
tell me i was wrong.
tell me you meant every word and i will never bring it up again.
but tell me I wasn’t wrong.
and we will never go back to how we used to be.
just tell me the truth.

I joined the occult,
Paid some very hefty dues,
Then they kicked me out.

Careful.
I’ll construct worlds and dreams,
Based on the color of your eyes.
I’ll memorize words,
That you didn’t write for me.
And with every single repetition,
I’ll convince myself your hand fits perfectly in mine,
When we are never destined to touch.
Be careful, love.
Because I’ll never recover from the idea of you.

Your binoculars are cracked
You've lost your sense of sight
Alone in the dark
You're filled with utter fright

Your targets been missed
And there's no where to go
Your binoculars are cracked
And now you've nothing to show

Your binoculars are cracked
The only way to see
But you're so far in the future
You forget to stop and be

Your hindsights 20/20
And now you realize
Your binoculars are cracked
But you have perfectly working eyes

25 hour movie marathon and I am still not tired of holding your hand and feeling your fingers lace through mine. You feel like home in this galaxy.

I feel like crying and I feel like screaming.
I feel like falling back into day dreaming.
I feel like pining and reminiscing.
I feel like lying, so I guess I’ll start writing.

You’re my fever dream.
Sweat soaked sheets,
Aching hearts,
And sometime in the night, we break.

There it is. The spark. The heart racing, heavy breathing, if I don’t write this line of poetry my body might explode spark. Closely followed by intense examination of every single syllable to determine if what I think is poetry is something that someone else will think is poetry and will they shun me from the poetic society of poets if they disagree? Hah. Followed by slight laughter at my own cunning demise because that’s the thing about poets. Whether you call yourself that or not, you’re a part of this creative community. You’ve decided that you have words to share and **** it you demand to be heard and then maybe you wonder if what you’re feeling isn’t all that big of a deal at all. Maybe it doesn’t deserve a line, a phrase, or even a poetic thought.

But it does. Because poetry is not poetry if it’s censored and molded and charmed like a snake into fitting into someone else’s landscape. Poetry is not poetry if you don’t feel a piece of your soul being exposed with every cascading turn of phrase. Poetry is not poetry if it is a robotic reiteration & regurgitation of what someone expects you to feel. Poetry is not poetry if you don’t believe in what you’re writing.

So write the things you want. Write the things that are hard to say. The things that choke you and trip you up and expose scars and flaws in your physique. Write the things that are begging to be written. I promise not to laugh. I promise not to report you to the creative commission for poor writing. Write the things that demand to be written, because you demand to tell them.

when i was young, we played in the garden behind my house.
you chased me as i chased my brothers and the wind tugged at my braids and freckles stained my cheeks.
you were there as i giggled as my father spun me around and let me dance on his toes.
you came to me in the summer, with endless nights spent skipping rocks at the river.
you came at christmas every year until recently and you came when my mother learned to laugh again, after that dark day in May.
you were there.
you made saturday morning cartoons with uncombed hair the highlight of the week.
you started coming less and less the more i learned about the world, but you were still found in things like chocolate oranges and butterfly kisses.
i find you now, in the phone calls home and the care packages filled with sweet notes.

i've realized that you come in the form of people and places rather than exquisite actions and success.

You came to me at an interesting time in my life.
You came to me when I chopped my hair into the style they call “butch.”
You met me when I moved out of my parents house and began paying bills and buying
my own cold medication.
You came to me when summer turned to winter, bypassing the fall, and I bypassed the
transitional stages of adolescence straight into adulthood.
You met me when I was faced with the decision of whether or not I would stand up, or
stay face down.
You met me many nights, when I sat alone with the pills and contemplated the dosage
that I’d need to either feel okay or to feel nothing at all.
You were there every time I put the pills away and went to bed instead.
You’re still one of my closest companions.

Every day it seems you come to me and say “Hey butch. Things will get better, including
your awful haircut.”

She craved adventure while he shied away. She'd step off the edge of a cliff, knowing she'd fall or fly, not caring which. While he'd stand by her side, ready to move, yet strings still attached, refusing to let him be ungrounded.

She longed so much for something other than automated responses and faked opinions. Something more than just a mirror.

Her mind was a canvas, waiting to be colored, while he remained hidden under plastic, to keep sheltered with all his domestic familiarity.

“You’ll feel so much better,
When the meds start to kick in.
Just give it some time,
And keep your mind open.”

I’m kicking in doors and
I’m breaking glass dishes
And none of it brings me
Any closer to wishes.

Of healing. Of wholeness.
Of anything sane.
Of something, just anything,
To scrub out the pain.

No line of poetry, no act of god.
No deep breathing method or trip far abroad,
Will pull me from these depths that I’m in.
I can’t start to get better
if the meds never kicked in.

My mighty moments made me mistakes,
Making miserable memories.
Minding my mouth means mending.
Mostly.

If I peek under the bed,
And give the scary thing teeth,
Will it swallow me whole?
Or tell me a story?

I wonder what it's like to be the moon. To look down on those. Sleeping peacefully, falling in love, creating memories. I wonder how it would feel to know for once I was the source of light in someone's life. To be the one that is beautiful beyond comparison. Look at that moon tonight. I wonder how it would feel to be so selfless you let others use you for the countless hours. The moon that hangs, seamlessly without strings, but steady as a rock. It's reflection skewed by lakes and seas, I wonder if the moon is ever as lonely as me.

Writing is muscle memory.
And the muscle in my chest remembers you fondly.
Every beat a memory,
And when it pounds loudly,
The words flow seamlessly.

Do your legs ever feel restless?
Because mine do. All the time.
I think about breaking your heart, but not in the traditional sense.
I won't leave you for another.
I won't leave you because I fell out of love.
I'll leave you because I can't escape myself; and why cause two casualties where one would suffice?
Yes. I'll break your heart. I'll run away, and you'll never hear from me again.
But please believe it's not because I don't love you.
I love you more than the feeling I get when a plane takes off, and the possibility of somewhere new becomes a reality.
I love you more than Sunday mornings, with the sun peering in the Windows.
I love you more than I hate myself. Which is why I have to break your heart.
Please don't miss me. I'll love you forever, but someday you'll forget the brown eyed girl you used to know. And you'll remember what it's like to feel free.

a boy once told me he loved me.
i told him i needed space.
he begged me not to hurt him.
i hurt him anyways.
a boy once told me he loved me.
but i chose to love myself instead.

Your name,
Repeating in my mind,
A syncopating rhythm when the nights are long.

Your name,
Providing solace, hope, and longing.

Your name,
Belonging to every iteration of who you have ever been, and who you’ll ever be.

Your name,
Containing multitudes of wonder bestowed to its owner.

I’m a little out of order.
I am slightly out of sorts.
I’m done trading thoughts for pennies,
When they’re worth so much more.

I think if you just tapped me,
Or put a pen inside my hand,
Turn me off, then on again
Or tell me your demands -

Then maybe I’ll get better.
And things won’t seem so hard.
I’m a little out of order,  
But my wounds will someday scar.

So run your fingers over me,
Think of how I used to feel.
Trace the marks from left to right,
And know that love is real.

I’m just a little out of order,
It’s nothing I can’t mend.
So lighten up, refill my cup,
I’ll be fine, my friend.

it’s always this place I come back to.
a broken heart and broken promise lay at my feet. and instead of walking away, i pick them both up, tie them together with a ribbon, and put them both back in my chest, with the hope that next time you won’t break them in the first place.

i like my peanut butter crunchy.
and my jelly so i can taste the seeds.

                                                         ­                             i like your hand in mine,
                                                           ­                            and kisses on my cheeks.

i'm not scared of the dark,
but love gives me cause for concern.

                                                               ­           i'm not scared of you, my dear,
                                                           ­               but i'm scared you won't return.

i like my peanut butter crunchy,
because that's how you always made it.

                                                               ­      and the seeds caught in your teeth,
                                                          ­                     that made your smile perfect.

maybe life is not for everyone.

Knock knock.                     “Are you home?”

Text chimes.                         “Are you alone?”

Phone calls.                       “Are you alright?”

Face the signs,              “Let’s call it a night.”

Back to back.    “We never said it was love.”

Drawing lines.                “But maybe it was.”

have you finished your cigarette,
the one you promised would be your last?
like you said, the battle's lost,
if you slip back to the past.

have you put down that bottle,
the one that's ten times stronger?
you promised her you'd do it,
that you'd make the change for her.

have you given up your sins,
the ones that have haunted you from youth?
so you can become the kind of man
that your kids will look up to?

you've made so many promises,
some have been kept and some have not.
please don't break this one last promise-
you won't lose the fight you've fought.

You stab your own heart
to make sure it will bleed
when others ***** you.

I was told the Refiner’s Fire
Would make me shine and glow.
I wish I had I known, that long ago,
The true Refiner left open the door.

I could have stepped outside,
And realized the sun is even warmer.
Into a new light, enters my soul,
And instantly I feel calmer.

Free from all the control and lies,
I was told as the fire was lit.
The choice that was always meant to be mine,
Was stripped away bit by bit.

It’s Healing and Grace, I’m needing right now -
I can’t find in the walls of this church.
The fire holds no love for me now,
The sun is what I deserve.

I’m standing in sunlight, still fully loved,
Without fire licking my skin.
After decades in a constricted cell,
I’m breaking out from within.

The refiners fire was always manmade,
A way to foster control.
The sunlight instead, beckons me in,
Bringing me back to the fold.

When the sea’s churn is endless,
And all comfort’s denied,
Let me live on this tongue,
And by its words die.

“I was a vessel from tempest.
I was your chance to transform.
Yet in the inky swells recess,
You still shied from a storm.”

No rough edge made smooth,
No dull thing made to shine.
Every ridge and harsh groove,
I own to be mine.

And to the mouth of the shell,
From whence I was spit,
I’ll parry this truth:
Some pearls aren’t worth ****.